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stable—tan buckskins and shining top boots, a white cravat and a coat of blue superfine. The fancy black clothes he had on today made him even more the stranger to her.
    Papa looked strange, too, in the best clothes which he hardly ever wore. But he looked happy, happier than either of them. For some reason known only to him, Papa wanted her married to Andrew. It was very odd. He’d never wanted her married before. Why he should want it now?
    She pulled her attention back to the vicar. He had reached the point where she was supposed to speak. She said the proper words and soon the ceremony was over. She was Andrew’s wife. He offered her his arm, and Papa and Peter followed them down the aisle.
    Thank goodness there were no other spectators; no one but Papa and Peter had witnessed this strange marriage.
    Outside the church, Andrew shook Durabian’s hand. “The situation is unusual,” he said, his face grave. “But I want you to know that I’ll do my best to make Bridget happy.”
    Papa smiled. “I know ye will,” he said. “Else I’d not have given her into yer keeping.”
    What was Papa talking about now? She didn’t need to be in anyone’s keeping. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself—if men would only recognize it. But of course they didn’t. They had to go on thinking that they were the strong ones—in charge of everything, knowing everything, when most of the time they knew very little.
    Andrew’s carriage was waiting, the driver holding open the door for them.
    “Well,” Papa said, his voice turning hoarse. “Ye go along now and be happy.”
    Bridget nodded. The lump in her throat had grown too big for talking over.
    Andrew shook Durabian’s hand again. “I’ll send for the stallion in the morning,” he went on. “If that’s agreeable.”
    “The sooner the better,” Papa said cheerfully. “I know Bridget’ll be wanting him close at hand. Him being like her baby and all.”
    For the first time it struck her that Papa would be left alone. “Oh, Papa!” she cried, taking a step toward him. “I don’t want to leave you!”
    He grabbed her in a warm comforting hug. “Remember,” he whispered in her ear, “ ‘tis all fer the best now.”
    She blinked back her tears. “Yes, Papa.” Why did she have this silly desire to cry? She could come out to the stables every day if she wanted. She was a lady now. And ladies did as they pleased.
    “I’ll send the carriage out tomorrow,” Andrew said, “when the groom comes for the stallion. I’m sure Bridget has some things she’ll want besides what she’s bringing along with her today. Her mother’s books and such.”
    She nodded. “I have them all ready.” No need to tell them that under the books she’d packed her breeches and boots. At least she’d have Waterloo—she’d be able to ride. Perhaps being a lady wouldn’t be so bad. And it was what Papa wanted.
    * * * *
    A while later Bridget wasn’t so sure. The drive back to London seemed to be taking forever. She was bounced and jiggled around on the seat. Hav—Andrew must have the best carriage available, but riding in it was nothing at all like riding a horse. She knew what the trouble was— there was no connection between her and the animals pulling the carriage. Perhaps . . . She turned to the man beside her. “Andrew, could I drive the carriage?”
    The look he gave her was shocked, but his voice was even. “I’m afraid not, my dear.” He glanced down at her fancy clothes. “You’re not really dressed for it anyway.”
    “That’s unfair,” she cried, unable to stop herself. “I didn’t ask for these clothes. I didn’t ask to marry you!”
    Instead of getting angry, he put on a look of patience, like she was some skittish filly who needed a firm hand. “I know that, Bridget. But you did agree to it.” He heaved a big sigh. “The deed is done. So why don’t we make the best of it?”
    He turned on the squabs, looking her squarely in the eyes.